


brute blood of the air

by labicheramure



Category: Batman - Fandom, Under the Red Hood
Genre: M/M, Medical Abuse, Mental Hospitals, Past Sexual Assault, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 01:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13730604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labicheramure/pseuds/labicheramure
Summary: The Red Hood was younger than his mugshot suggested.





	brute blood of the air

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at a more nuanced take on mental illness in the Batman universe. Makes a few assumptions about Arkham, mainly that it is, in fact, a state hospital for people deemed mentally unfit for trial and not some bizarre superjail. Takes place in the Two Batmen era right before the start of New 52, but in the year 2014 for reasons that will become clear soon.

The Red Hood was younger than his mugshot suggested. A split lip and bloodshot eyes made him look like a man who had been on the streets for decades, and growing bruises yellowed his skin against the white wall behind him. The walls of Thora’s office were placid blue, the light a little softer, more forgiving. In her light, the Red Hood was terribly young. His hair had grown into black curls that brushed his cheeks, one brittle white lock sticking out at his temple. The set of his mouth seemed more sullen than dangerous, and his green-blue eyes had a wideness that made her think of drowning. 

 

“I’d like to get him in by the first, if we can manage,” said Dr. Calpurn. “We already have permission from Dr. Arkham, all we need is your signature.” 

 

Calpurn was the psychiatrist in charge of J Ward, Arkham’s max security unit for men. So named for the infamous Joker, of course. He sat next to (but still four feet away from) Red Hood, who slouched in his chair across from Thora and stared in a way that always made her think he was about to speak. He never did.

 

“I don’t see why this can’t wait until after his psych eval,” Thora said. “It’s only another two months. Then he might have a court date, and none of this will matter.”

 

Red Hood’s situation was unique, even in Arkham. A John Doe with no records prior to his first arrest, only charged with one murder but suspected in nearly a dozen more. Two years ago, before her time, he lit up the Gotham underworld with what appeared to be a single-handed attempt at a hostile takeover of the weapons trade, supposedly caught in one of his own explosions until he resurfaced, this time starting gang wars. This last time was the most bizarre. After a guerrilla campaign on social media, where he claimed to be protecting Gotham City with lethal violence, at one point claiming to have captured Batman, he was taken into custody once again. His guilty plea was rejected, on grounds of mental unfitness. The court psychologist argued that he was delusional, taking responsibility for a number of crimes he did not commit as a part of a fantasy where he was a gang-killing superhero. 

 

In custody, Red Hood was a different story. He slipped his cuffs the moment he was left alone in them, holding them up and calmly informing guards that he’d dislocated both his thumbs. He did this four times before special restraints were ordered, ones too tight to slip off. From that point on, he was a model patient. He didn’t attack anyone, even after a guard hit him in the face for not moving fast enough. He ate his meals, took his medication, and asked for books like _Sense and Sensibility_ and A People’s History of The United States. In therapy, he asked to go to prison, to get the needle. Not because he wanted to die, or thought he deserved it, but because he wanted to see the look on Batman’s face.

 

Dr. Calpurn leaned back in his chair, sighing as if he was very put upon, somehow. Red Hood caught her eyes, and Thora found herself sharing a brief look of exasperation with him. In a place  that housed a cannibalistic crocodile man, he somehow found a murderer who wanted to go to prison to be the most unreasonable. 

 

“Nothing has changed since his first hearing,” Calpurn said. “He may be less violent than he was on the streets, but he retains the same delusions about a close relationship with Batman. It would be hard to argue that he’s improved.”

 

“You know,” Red Hood said. His voice was even younger than she expected, a lazy Gotham drawl that made Thora think of the tomcats she used the feed in the Narrows. “Just ‘cause I’m crazy doesn’t mean I’m deaf. It’s awful rude to talk about someone like they’re not there, ain’t it?”

 

Dr. Calpurn flinched a little, as if he had indeed just realized that Hood was still there. As a psychiatrist, he didn’t spend a lot of time with the patients, even if he did technically run J Ward. He imagined them as words on a chart, test subjects, living inside recursive patterns of thought with no knowledge of anything outside themselves. Red Hood was just the right combination of lucid and unpredictable to knock a man like him off balance.

 

“You’re right,” Thora said. “It seems the only person that hasn’t been asked about this move is you. Do you want to be moved to Ward X?”

 

“How far is Ward X from the Joker?”

 

“We’re in a separate building.”

 

Something seemed to unwind in Hood, hearing that, and she realized how stiff his posture had been, lazing in his special handcuffs. It was like a bronze statue, only an approximation of softness. It was gone in a second, as he shored himself up and leaned over, tomcat grin pointed straight at her. 

 

“When do I move in?”

 

—

 

In the four years she spent working at psychiatric hospitals, both state and private, Thora Sanders thought she’d learned how things were run. Four months at Arkham turned everything on its head. The old professor who recommended her for the job of running the new women’s max security ward had warned her that it was different, that Gotham was different. He could never quite describe how, but she got the sense that there was a very good reason he’d gotten out of hospitals and into teaching so early in his career. Inpatient facilities, especially for violent offenders, were never nice places. They smelled like piss no matter where you went, and the older ones all had a sickly yellow cast to the fluorescent lighting. With Arkham, it was more than that. The old, main building had dark spots that lingered, places where the light could never quite reach. It smelled like death, was said to house more murders in its walls than any such facility in the country. A cloud of fear hung over the staff and patients. More than anywhere else, she sensed that it was a place where hope went to die. 

 

Thora knew well and good that was why someone as inexperienced as her was allowed to set up an experimental therapeutic community with some of the most dangerous women in the country. That, and a large injection of grant money from Bruce Wayne, who had just revealed that he’d apparently been funding Batman for over a decade. Gotham City made you crazy, people said. Ordinary people got the urge to dress up in costumes and declare war, respected doctors became obsessive and delusional. Thora was the same age as Harleen Quinzel when she came to Arkham. People were probably saying it was only a matter of time before she went down the same path.

 

Her unit was an annex built in the 70’s, remodeled by Bruce Wayne’s builders in less than a month. It housed six bedrooms, a small kitchen area, showers, a common room, and an office/on-call room for Thora. It was designed and built specifically to house the women with the highest risk of escape, with, in addition to the hospital’s standard high, electrified fences, a concrete wall, reinforced durasteel doors, and expansive bulletproof windows. It had a very Bruce Wayne aesthetic to it; that is, it was functional, but looked like it had been designed and redesigned within an inch of its life. She kind of loved it. 

 

Red Hood moved in at the end of September, when the sticky Gotham summer finally pulled back to reveal her true form; an autumn of salt-spray winds and the bitter scent of cold mornings. Unit X was warm when she came in, her four patients already up and lounging in the common room, watching the morning news. 

 

“...have been four such murders this year.”

 

“TV’s so gloom and doom these days,” Harley Quinn said, nursing what was probably her third coffee. “You’d never know the crime rate’s been going down since the 90’s.”

 

“It’s still pretty high here,” Jeanette Moon said. “Can we turn on Kitchen Nightmares now? I want to watch Gordon Ramsay get sad.”

 

National news had dubbed Jeanette the Kimchi Cannibal when she was caught. Because she was Korean. She always told Thora how much it irritated her, because she hated kimchi, and would never have eaten it with the remains of her husband. She had cured his meat into bacon, instead. It was what one did with pigs, she said. 

 

“When will Red Hood be here?” asked Mariposa. It took Thora a moment to realize that she was talking to her. Mariposa never looked at people when she spoke, instead watching the spot ahead of her with laser focus, always looking as if she saw things no one else did. Like a cat, staring into the corner of a room.

 

“Wolper wanted to meet with him before he left,” Thora said, taking a seat next to her. “They’re bringing him in about an hour.”

 

Quinn snorted into her coffee. “Old prick’s probably mad you’re taking one of his newsmakers.”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Thora said evenly, reaching for the remote. Privately, she agreed, but Wolper was her senior at the  facility by almost twenty years, she wasn’t going to say anything. “Is everyone okay with watching Kitchen Nightmares until group at eleven?”

 

Poison Ivy stirred, uncurling and nearly kicking Harley in the process. She had trouble keeping her energy up when it got colder, and it would only get worse as they moved into winter. Thora made a mental note to ask for more vitamin D. 

 

“Only if we can watch Amy’s Baking Company,” Ivy said.

 

—

 

“Is there anything else you’d like us to call you?”

 

Red Hood blinked up at her, slumped in his chair not out of bravado, but the heavy sedatives used to transport him between buildings. Thora had intended to use this first group session to get him acquainted with the women. As it was, she wasn’t sure he’d remember it. 

 

“I’m not telling you my real name,” he said. “You got something else on the chart, don’t you?”

 

She did. John Doe, no data found, alias Red Hood. Like the Joker, staff had taken to calling him by his code name simply because it was less confusing. He never objected, as far as Thora knew, but he didn’t seem to like it either. 

 

“Would you like us to call you John?”

 

Hood grinned.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Why not? It’s close enough.” 

 

Thora filed that ‘close enough’ away for later. 

 

“Alright, now that we got Johnny-come-lately established over here,” said Harley, kicking her feet like a little girl. “Can we get on with the show?”

 

“What, you got somewhere to be?” Red Hood -- John slurred. The medication was really kicking in now.

 

“That’s a good idea, Harley,” said Thora. Maybe they didn’t have anywhere to be, but they also had little time before he was asleep on the floor. “How about you start? What was your homework yesterday?”

 

“I was gonna write a list of stuff I liked about myself.” Harley reached under her chair to pick up a dry erase board decorated in her soft, swirly handwriting. “I only had time for one before the news came on and they started talking about real estate scandals so I had to watch.”

 

“And what did you write?” Thora prompted gently.

 

Harley held out the dry erase board. It said I’M STILL CUTE EVEN THOUGH I’M FORTY. 

 

“Don’t you have a PhD?” said Jeanette.

 

“Ain’t doing me a whole lotta good now, is it?”

 

Thora closed her eyes briefly, and made the call to leave it at that. It was a significant improvement that she would find something to list that did not involve her relationships with others, so Thora considered it a win.

 

“Alright,” she said. “Who wants to go next?”

 

“I will,” Ivy said, perked up since she’d gotten some morning sun. Small buds were sprouting in the pores of her arms, by afternoon they would be flowers. By sundown, they would be dead.

 

“My homework was to list three things I was looking forward to. However, I could not come up with any, because I was distracted by my concerns about bringing a man into this unit!”

 

“Oh?” Suddenly John was very awake.

 

“Ivy,” Thora said. “We talked about this. It’s a trial period, and only until the work on the main building is done and there’s room for him elsewhere.”

 

“What’s wrong with J?” Harley’s accent was getting heavier, adding at least two more syllables to _wrong_.

 

“Well -“

 

“Hold up, Doc, I’ll field this one,” John said, sitting up straight. Now that she was right next to him, Thora became deeply aware of just how _big_ he was. Nurse Sandoval caught her eye in the corner, hand hovering over the security button on her belt. Thora shook her head. “Now, I understand you ladies are upset about my intrusion. I would be too, if some asshole was about to come into my nuthouse and start leaving the toilet seat up. And I don’t like it any more than you do. If you gotta blame someone, blame Batman.”

 

The room exploded with noise, ranging from incredulous to angry to _I knew it!_ (From Harley.) Thora stood up, making sure Sandoval wasn’t trying to call the hospital police before she spoke. 

 

“John - “

 

“How can I blame Batman, you ask? Simple. If not for Batman, I would be rotting in the belly with the rest of the scum. If not for Batman, they could have shipped me off to solitary when I started making good ol’ Joker less jolly.”

 

The women went quiet. John looked please with himself. Harley turned to look at Thora, her face soft and serious and suddenly her age.

 

“Is that true, Doctor Sawyer?” She asked, all traces of accent gone, quiet, like the doctor Thora sometimes forgot she was. “Did Batman use his influence to keep Mr. Red out of seclusion?”

 

“He asked Dr. Arkham not to put him in seclusion, and Dr. Arkham agreed that it would be bad for him. Beyond that, I don’t know. Now then, are we ready to get back on track or is Group over for the day?”

 

“It’s all that Wayne money,” Mariposa said. “He’s holding it over our heads so we’ll do whatever he wants.”

 

Thora took a deep breath. 

 

“Group is over!”

 

—

 

To her surprise, the women settled down not long after they were finished, going back to their normal routines of playing cards or binge-watching gross reality TV. Arkham forbade normal playing cards, so Thora has gotten a deck of tarot cards at the new age store where she bought her nag champa. Now, Mariposa would spend the afternoons doing readings of the future or the weather. Sometimes she would try to teach the others Texas Hold Em, but they always ran out of things to bet. Cheerios made for poor poker chips when players ate them.

 

Red Hood was another matter. He’d gone to his room to sleep not long after group, having finally given up on fighting the sedatives. He slept all day, and, now, as lights-out approached, the cameras caught him pacing like an animal, scratching at his wrists as he watched the door. He almost seemed to be expecting a scolding. It didn’t fit with what Thora knew of him, in or out of Arkham. 

 

“I thought tomorrow was your night in?” The night nurse, Beatrice asked as Thora stepped over a Celtic cross spread and into the break room kitchenette. It was an early coffee kind of night. 

 

“I switched it,” Thora said. “The new patient needs supervision. He’s going to be up all night because of those stupid tranquilizers.”

 

Twice a week, Thora slept in the ward, in a bedroom next to the patients. It was, ostensibly, to have a firsthand experience of their sleeping patterns, and to help with problems on nights they were short-staffed. She told no one why she really did it. She told no one of the nights spent waking up with terrible chest pain, or the sunless mornings when she was certain she was back in the hospital where she spent her adolescence. She was a doctor, it was no one else’s business. 

 

She knocked on Red Hood’s door before she entered, carrying a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea. He opened it looking ready to complain, and took his tea with the expression of someone very angry at having no good reason to be angry. Even so, he politely stepped aside, shutting the door and gesturing to the room’s single, bolted down armchair. 

 

“Thought you were one of the crazies, here to nag me for Bat intel,” he said. “This is much better. Here, take a load off, Doc.”

 

“Thank you, John, but I’ll stand,” Thora said. “I’d like to talk to you about this afternoon.”

 

John took a seat himself, sprawling in the stiff, posturing way she’d seen before. The effect was dampened somewhat by the tea, balanced in his lap. 

 

“I know, I was a bad boy, bringing up the B Word like that. I just wanted to keep us all on the level, ya know? Communicating openly.”

 

“Why do you want to go into seclusion?” 

 

“What makes you say that?” John Doe curled just a little bit inward, both hands now coming to curl around his cup. 

 

“All of your behavior since the Joker arrived here,” Thora said. “Has been specifically designed to be disruptive. You derail group therapy sessions and classes with topics you know upset the other patients. You antagonize the police until they hit you, and then cover for them. After four months of peace, you tried to kill Dr. Crane with a spoon.”

 

“Didn’t try that hard,” John mumbled. Thora sat on the edge of his bed, deciding to let him avoid eye contact for now. 

 

“No, you didn’t. Which leads me to believe it wasn’t your goal.”

 

“Seclusion makes it easier to escape,” he said. “No one watching you.”

 

Now Thora leaned forward, eyeing him closely. 

 

“The seclusion room has three cameras. Everyone’s watching you.”

 

John laughed softly, a private joke with himself. 

 

“Would you believe me,” he said. “If I told you I just wanted some peace and quiet?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Leda and the Swan_ by W.B. Yeats.


End file.
